


I Just Need You

by beckybrit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Restraints, Scent Marking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckybrit/pseuds/beckybrit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Derek?” He’s surprised at how steady his voice is, considering he’s absolutely terrified. It’s been a long time since he’s been afraid of Derek, but the eyes looking back at him now are full of hate and the promise of death. Stiles shudders but steadfastly refuses to look away. “Derek, I know it doesn’t look like it, but it’s me... Stiles.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Need You

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the lovely Fr333bird for pre-reading, beta'ing and thinking of the title! She's the best :)

The fist hits Stiles square in the jaw, cutting his lip wide open. “Fuck you!” he spits out, blood dripping down his chin. He wants to wipe it away, but his hands are still tied behind his back, the plastic cable ties digging into the skin of his wrists.

“I told you to keep quiet.” The hunter nearest to him grins and reaches out to grasp him by the hair, yanking his head up at a painful angle. Stiles grew his hair out so that Derek had something to grab hold of; he never thought he’d come to regret that decision. “Guess we’ll just have to do this then.” The hunter waves a roll of duct tape in front of Stiles’ face, and lets go of his hair to rip a piece off.

Stiles bites back a cry as the tape is pressed into his split lip and over his mouth, silencing his protests.

“There.” The hunter pats the tape with his fingers and steps back, a smug look on his face. “Much better.”

Stiles glares at him, imagining all the ways that Derek and the rest of his pack will tear this man apart when they get here. And they will find him, Stiles has no doubt about that. But, as much as he tries to ignore it, the fact that he’ll be so easy to find has him worried the most.

The hunters who took him—four of them in total—are definitely not new to this game. Stiles knows a seasoned pro when he sees one, and these men are efficient and ruthless in a way that only comes from experience. But apart from telling him to hand over his clothes, and to shut the fuck up, they haven’t asked him anything. Not about Derek, or the rest of the pack... nothing. And his phone is just sitting there on the table, still switched on and broadcasting his position for anyone to follow.

There are three hunters with him now, and they’re all standing around waiting patiently as if this is an everyday occurrence. Maybe they make a habit of kidnapping nineteen year old boys; Stiles wouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point.

The door to the room opens and the fourth hunter, Stiles  nicknames him Ugly Motherfucker—for obvious reasons—strolls in with a crossbow resting over his shoulder. His smile is predatory and it makes Stiles’ blood run cold. “He’s here.”

Stiles gets shoved forward and just about manages to stay upright.

“Come on, Stilinski.” Hunter number one, the hair grabber, leans in to whisper in his ear. “You’re going to love this. Well, no, that’s a lie.” The others laugh and Stiles feels his heart rate ramp up. He takes deep breaths in through his nose, forces his thoughts to focus on happier times because this is absolutely the worst time for a panic attack.

They walk him out the door, one hunter dragging him on either side down a long dark corridor and into another room at the end. It’s oddly silent when they step inside, like all the sound has been sucked out of it. Stiles looks around, taking in his new surroundings. The room is sparsely furnished, one chair sitting in the middle of the floor facing a large glass wall on the far side. It’s hard to see much else because there are no lights on, and Stiles strains to look beyond the glass but it’s impossible to make anything out. Until it’s not, and then Stiles wishes that he couldn’t see anything at all.

“Show time.” Ugly Motherfucker grins as he turns to face Stiles and pushes him down onto the chair.

A light beyond the glass wall flares brightly, illuminating a large room beyond.

And _Derek_.

He’s alone and on his knees. There’s an arrow sticking out of his back and another lodged in his thigh. The arrows must be laced with wolfsbane because Derek looks deathly pale and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Stiles feels anger and fear coursing through him in equal measure. They’ve done nothing to warrant this treatment and it’s just another big ‘fuck you’ to his pack for sticking to the treaty.

“He can’t see you, or hear your heartbeat, in case you were wondering.” Hunter number one walks over to the glass and yells as loud as he can. Derek doesn’t even flinch.

Stiles needs to get to Derek. The urge to grab him and haul him out of there has Stiles struggling to stand, but he’s forced back down almost immediately by a rough hand on his shoulder. The hunter’s tone drips with sarcasm. “Trust me; you won’t want to miss what happens next.”

Stiles braces himself as much as he can for what he thinks is coming, but the thought of losing Derek is just too painful. They’ve only really been together for three months, all that time wasted before as they danced around each other, and now it looks like it’s run out.

Stiles looks at the broad expanse of Derek’s shoulders. He’s struggling to remain upright and strong even as the poison races through his veins, and Stiles’ heart hurts to know that this could be the last time he sees Derek alive. He always knew there was a possibility that either he or Derek would see the other die, but he’d never truly believed it would actually happen.

A door opens in the other room and Derek’s head snaps over in that direction. Ugly Motherfucker walks over to a panel on the side wall and flicks a switch—filling the air around them with sudden sound.

“Stiles?” Derek whispers the word, his voice full of hope, but he’s still looking toward the door. Stiles looks up at the hunters in confusion but they ignore him, all eyes intent on the scene unfolding in front of them.

Stiles leans forward in his seat to get a better look at who’s coming through the door. _What the fuck?_ He closes his eyes and shakes his head, certain that his vision is playing tricks on him, because _what the actual fuck_?

Stiles stares hard, unable to comprehend what he’s seeing. Two figures enter the room—one tall, with black hair and piercing blue eyes, and the other... is _him_. Well not _him_ him _,_ but the person being escorted into the room with Derek is Stiles’ doppelganger. He’s even wearing Stiles’ clothes and… _ah_. That’s why they made Stiles strip.

Derek says his name again; a strange look on his face as though he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing either. Stiles can imagine how confusing it must be for him—the fake Stiles might be wearing clothes that smell like the real Stiles, but his underlying scent would still be off.

Derek tilts his head to the side, nostrils flaring as he inhales. “You smell wrong.”

Fake Stiles is conveniently gagged with the same tape as Stiles is, so he can’t answer, but his eyes are terrified. Dread settles deep in Stiles’ stomach as he realizes the boy is probably innocent and has no idea what’s going on. His gaze lands on Derek, whose eyes are now glowing red and who now has a mouthful of fangs. Fake Stiles tries to back out of the room, but the man holding him just laughs and forces him to his knees in front of Derek.

Derek struggles to move forward and it’s the first time Stiles has noticed that Derek can’t move, like there’s some invisible force keeping him in place. And then it dawns on him—the hunters have a mage. Of course! That’s why Derek can’t hear Stiles’ heartbeat through the glass.

“Let him go.” Derek growls out, the words distorted by his partial shift. “You have me, you don’t need him.”

The man, _mage_ Stiles reminds himself, holding fake Stiles smirks at Derek. “Consider this a warning”—he puts one hand on the side of fake Stiles’ head and the other under his chin— “we’ll be coming for the rest of your pack next.”

Stiles watches in horror as the mage tightens his grip and sharply twists his shoulders—breaking fake Stiles’ neck with an audible snap.

“No!” Derek cries out, straining against the force holding him. “ _Stiles!_ ” The boy’s body falls to the floor in a lifeless heap, and Derek’s heartbroken howls fill the silence.

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. Bile rises steadily up his throat, but he swallows it back down in an effort not to choke with his mouth still taped up. Fat tears roll steadily down Stiles’ cheeks as he sees Derek slump back onto the floor; defeat evident in every muscle. Everything about this so fucking wrong—from Derek’s open despair in front of his enemies, to the used and discarded form lying crumpled on the ground—and Stiles silently rages against the injustice of it all.

The mage steps over the dead boy and crouches down in front of Derek, the corner of his mouth curling up in some semblance of a smile, but there’s absolutely no warmth in it. Derek’s walls drop back down into place, locking this new pain and heartbreak away with all the rest that he holds inside, and replacing it with anger and the promise of violence. Stiles almost sags in relief—if there’s some fight left in Derek, then he hasn’t given up yet.

“Here.” The mage tosses a small tin at Derek. “This will heal your wounds; can’t have you dying just yet. Go back to what’s left of your pack, Hale.” He spits at him. “We’ll be seeing you soon.”

Stiles has no idea what’s going on; but if Derek’s confused at the prospect of release, he doesn’t show it and Stiles feels a warm glow of pride bloom in his chest. Derek is stronger than any of them give him credit for and Stiles’ eyes tear up again at the way Derek has pulled himself back from the edge once more. He aches to wrap his arms around Derek and show him that it’s okay, and that he’s not dead, and Derek hasn’t just lost another person that he let himself care about.

Stiles is one of the few people who can break through Derek’s defenses and see all the vulnerability that he keeps hidden. He wants to protect that soft part of Derek, keep it safe from the guilt and self-loathing that Stiles knows will sneak in once Derek is free and has time to think.  But the mage is already hauling Derek to his feet and out of the door, while Stiles is forced to watch in silence, still pinned in his seat behind the glass.

His eyes fall back to the boy on the floor; left alone in the room, used and forgotten. He looks nothing like Stiles now; dark, familiar features replaced by shaggy blonde hair and dull, lifeless blue eyes. Stiles has to look away. What a fucking waste.

The hunters in the room with him are chatting amongst themselves, congratulating each other on a job well done. For the first time in a long while Stiles wishes he was a wolf, so that he could wipe the smiles from their faces with his claws and fangs. He’s not though, he’s human and currently defenseless—he’s unable to do anything but wait and see what happens next. But he memorizes each of their faces, makes a mental note of any distinguishing features just like his dad taught him, because that’s something he _can_ do.

Stiles won’t forget any of them, and when he gets out of this—and he will, because there’s just no way he’s letting _that_ be Derek’s last memory of him—he’s going to make each and every one of them pay for this.

With the show over, there’s apparently no need to keep Stiles quiet any longer and the tape is roughly ripped away.

“Fucking ow!” Stiles yells as the tape pulls at his split lip and opens up the cut. _Assholes._ He licks at the blood, trying not to make a face at the taste, and silently adds this to his list of grievances against his captors. He has a feeling it will be a long fucking list before they’re through—just as well Stiles has almost perfect recall. “So what happens n—”

Stiles is out cold before he can finish the sentence.

* * * * *

When he finally comes to, Stiles’ head is throbbing violently and he has to fight a sudden wave of nausea as he struggles to sit up. At least his hands are free now, though. They must have hit him really fucking hard to make him black out like that and Stiles mutters curses under his breath as he waits for his vision to stop swimming. He suspects he’s been moved to another room, but he can’t face looking around just yet; not while there’s every possibility he might hurl if he moves.  He gingerly probes at the back of his head with his fingers to assess the damage. It hurts when he touches it—no surprise there—and Stiles winces when his hand comes away sticky and wet with blood.

The throbbing starts to get worse as he sits there. His whole body aches, his skin feels clammy and Stiles is forced to lie back down on the floor. The stone tiles are cool against his overheated cheeks, and Stiles closes his eyes for just a moment.

He dozes there, drifting in and out of consciousness, and by the time he feels awake enough to try and sit up again, his headache has reduced to a dull ache. Stiles rubs at his eyes, wipes away the last remainders of sleep and finally takes a look around the room that he’s now in. It’s a lot smaller than the one with the glass wall, but there’s a floor to ceiling mirror on the back wall that raises Stiles’ suspicions. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone was watching him from the other side. He grins his most obnoxious smile and flicks his middle finger up; it makes him feel better even if he can’t see their reaction.  

But as he focuses on his reflection, his breath catches and a heavy, cold weight settles in his stomach. _Jesus Christ_. That’s not his face staring back at him. Stiles raises a hand and runs his fingers through the thick, black hair now framing his face. Bright blue eyes follow the movement, instead of his usual honey-brown ones, and Stiles feels sick all over again. His hands start to shake and his heart thunders in his chest. Fuck. Stiles sucks in one shallow breath after another. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It’s not just any face staring back at him either—it’s the face of the fucking mage who killed fake Stiles in front of Derek. He can hazard a good guess at why those bastard hunters have done this to him, but the thought only makes his anxiety worse. He closes his eyes and concentrates on warm sunny days spent lounging on Derek’s porch, with strong hands wrapped around his waist and soft breath whispering over the back of his neck. Bit by bit, Stiles starts to calm down and he’s able to breathe deeply and fill his lungs with much needed air.

He looks up sharply when the door opens, revealing Ugly Motherfucker and one of the others. “You’re awake then. What do you think of your new look?” They both laugh as they walk behind Stiles to look at his reflection in the mirror. “Not sure loverboy will like it too much though.”

He’s so totally fucked. The hunters are absolutely right; Derek will probably tear him apart before Stiles has chance to explain. “Why go to all this trouble?” Stiles asks, buying time as he frantically thinks of a way out of this. “Why not just kill me for real in the first place, instead of using a fake me?” He scans the room again, but there’s no other way out, not even a window. Not that he’s in any shape to fight off two hunters with nothing but his bare hands anyway.

Ugly Motherfucker—and Stiles thinks he might call him UM for now as it’s getting too much of a mouthful—shakes his head. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one?”

“I am,” Stiles replies, unable to help himself. He knows they’re just baiting him, and he really should ignore the slight, but he _is_ the smart one and no psycho hunter is going to tell him otherwise. “My guess is, you want Derek to kill me so that you have a valid reason to go after his pack. I’m assuming this spell will reverse once I’m dead?”

UM claps, slow and mocking. “Not as dumb as you look then.”

Stiles turns around and glares at him. “I still don’t understand why you did all this though.” He waves a hand over himself. “Why not just go after Derek anyway, it’s not like you follow the code—what with all the kidnapping and killing of innocent teenagers.”

“I take it back.” UM turns to his partner and rolls his eyes. For a second Stiles thinks that that’s all the explanation he’s going to get, but UM clearly likes the sound of his own voice far too much to stop. “Argent and his daughter can’t handle this area on their own and everyone knows it.  There are interested parties watching, and we want to be part of the new family that takes over.”

“And these interested parties _do_ follow the code,” Stiles concludes, as the pieces all begin to fall into place. “And if you kill Derek with legitimate reason, then you think that will give you a way in?”

The hunters just grin and Stiles knows that he’s right. “So what, are you just going to drop me in the middle of Hale land and wait for him to come get me?” Stiles has to admit, it’s a good plan, if a little elaborate and macabre for his tastes. But if it works, then he knows that even if Derek survives the hunters, the guilt from actually killing Stiles will be the last straw. He can’t see Derek coming back from that.

“Not exactly,” UM cuts into Stiles’ thoughts, and now he’s outright smiling. “See, we need Argent to appear at exactly the right time, can’t have him seeing you like this or he’ll know it was a setup.”

“Derek’s probably telling him about my death right now, you fucking assholes!” Stiles hisses. He’s suddenly furious; all he can picture is Derek’s expression when he watched Stiles die, it’ll be a thousand times worse if it happens by Derek’s own hand. “Chris will know he didn’t do it.”

UM shrugs, like they’ve already thought of this and it’s not a problem. “There’s no body, so Hale can’t prove anything. And when he’s found with his claws buried in your actual body, the evidence will speak for itself anyway, regardless of what Argent believes.

Stiles grips his hair in frustration, hating the way it feels too long in his fingers. Out of all the times his life has been in danger, this is the first one that really feels like the end. He can’t think straight like this; everything feels and looks wrong. Even with his eyes closed the sense that something’s _not fucking right_ clings to every part of him. How the fuck is he supposed to convince his friends—convince _Derek_ —that it’s him inside this murderer’s body?

“Put these on.” UM throws a bundle of clothes at his face and Stiles catches them on instinct. “The spell masks your scent a little, but not enough.”

Stiles doesn’t need to see them to know that they’re the mage’s clothes. He turns them over in his hands, thinking. He’s probably going to die no matter what. Does he really want to make it easier for them to take Derek down too? No, he doesn’t. With a shrug of his shoulders and a wide grin, Stiles tosses the clothes back. “Yeah... don’t think I will, thanks.” He leans back on his hands and looks up at the two hunters, steeling himself for what comes next. He doubts it’ll be enjoyable.

UM turns to his partner and laughs. “I love it when they put up a fight.”

The other man nods, slips his hand behind him and when he pulls it back, he’s holding a gun. He points it at Stiles’ head. “Put them on, or we’ll do it for you. Either way, you’re wearing them.”

The thought of them trying to dress him against his will is almost funny—in a slightly terrifying way—and Stiles has to bite back a hysterical laugh. But regardless of what they do to him, he’s issued the challenge and he’s not backing down. Sadistic, gun-toting hunters or not. “Nope.”

“Have it your way.” The hunter squeezes the trigger and Stiles’ world goes black for the second time today.

* * * * *

When he wakes up, Stiles is amazed that he’s still alive. A quick once over reveals a tender spot in his left shoulder, and he can only assume they tranq’d him. He’s also wearing the mage’s clothes. _Assholes._ His mouth feels like shit and his head is still a little fuzzy from the drug, but other than that he seems to be in one piece.

He’s not in the room anymore though. From the looks of it, he’s in the back of a large van. There’s nothing in it but him. It smells musty and unused, and any sound he makes echoes loudly in the empty space. The van’s not moving; so either they’ve not set off yet, or they’ve already arrived at their destination. Stiles has a nagging feeling that it’s the latter.

He tries not think of what comes next—that will only lead to panic attacks and freaking out. Instead he tries to come up with some sort of plan. This absolutely cannot be the way he exits this life—in someone else’s clothes and someone else’s fucking body. He runs through his options, limited as they are. He can’t go to his dad; the Sheriff’s at a conference for the next two days. Even if he was here Stiles wouldn’t know where to begin trying to explain this.  Derek and the pack are out—-for obvious reasons—and Stiles doesn’t really trust Chris and Allison all that much, regardless of the treaty they tentatively agreed on. That only leaves one person.

_Deaton._

Stiles has no idea where the hunters will drop him, but if he can make it to the vet clinic without being mauled to death by his boyfriend and his pack, then he might have a chance. If this is a spell, then it will have an aura, and Deaton will be able to see it. Stiles just has to make him look for it. _Easy_.

There are voices outside now, getting closer to the back doors of the van, and Stiles has to fight the urge to scramble away. No matter how scared he is, he refuses to give this bunch of dicks the satisfaction of seeing it. He forces himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth; slow, deep and calm.

The doors to the van swing open and Stiles squints at the sudden bright sunlight that streams in. He’s disoriented for a moment; the hunters snatched him early evening. It’s been longer than he thought. All four hunters stand looking at him, crossbows and guns either held in their hands or slung over their shoulders. UM jumps up into the van, with a large, funny looking syringe-type thing clasped tightly in his fingers. One of the others follows close behind him.

Stiles eyes it warily. “What the fuck is that?” He’d stupidly assumed that he’d at least have a fighting chance. If they we going to drug him again then it was all over.

UM holds it up in front of Stiles’ face so he can get a good look at it. “How else will we know where to send Argent, to find your body?” The needle is wide and Stiles can just about make out a small black object inside.

“You’re going to chip me?”

UM presses the needle to the inside of Stiles’ forearm, quicker than Stiles can react, and plunges down on the syringe. It hurts like a bitch and when he struggles to get away; hunter number two darts forward and holds him in place. “There.” UM smiles as he yanks the needle out roughly. “Now we’ll know where you are at all times.”

Both of the hunters step away and jump down to join the others, while Stiles glares after them and rubs at his arm. He hates the thought of them keeping tabs on him, but at this point it’s the least of his worries.

UM slips a long, silver knife from a sheath on his hip and gestures for Stiles to get up. “Out.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the knife. Of course they couldn’t threaten him with a gun or crossbow—kind of hard to blame that sort of wound on wolves.

Stiles shuffles towards the open doors, wincing a little when he puts pressure on his arm. When he climbs out and looks around, the cold harsh reality of his situation hits him all over again. He recognizes exactly where he is, and the chances of him making it to Deaton unscathed have suddenly dwindled to almost zero. Stiles knows it’s written all over his face when all four of the hunters smile at him in that creepy, you’re-so-going-to-die-soon, way of theirs.

They’re in the middle of the Wildlife Preserve. The Animal Clinic is about  two hours from here if you run most of the way and cut through the forest. This should have Stiles jumping for joy—except part of the forest is on Hale property. Even if Derek and his pack aren’t out in the woods, Derek will know as soon someone crosses into his territory.

Stiles has no option but to skirt around the edges of Derek’s property, but that’s going to take him almost twice as long. He casts a quick glance up at the sky—the sun is well past its midpoint and Stiles guesses it’s already late afternoon. He has three, maybe four hours, before it starts to get dark. He really doesn’t want to be out here when the sun goes down. With any luck, Derek will be out searching for where they took him, and hopefully that’s far, far away from Stiles.

The sound of the van doors slamming shut, grabs Stiles’ attention. He must have zoned out because three of the hunters have disappeared back inside and only Ugly Motherfucker remains in front of him. “In case you think you actually stand a chance of surviving this”—he pulls his phone out from the back pocket of his jeans and start to type out a message— “I’m just sending Hale the directions to where he can find your supposedly dead body.” He points to the ground and laughs. “Right here.”

Stiles recognizes his own phone in the hunter’s hands and panic claws its way into his chest. Derek will come straight here, full of rage and a thirst for revenge. The only thing he’ll find here will be the faint trace of Stiles’ scent, mixed in with that of the hunters and the mage.

UM smirks as he backs away to the passenger door. “He’ll think you’ve taken the body into the forest and he’ll hunt you down to get it back.”

Stiles’ fists are clenched tight, fingernails digging into his palms and a trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck.

“Your boyfriend and his pack are busy following a false trail we left them. They’re about an hour away, but when I send this”—UM waves Stiles’ phone in the air, angling it so that Stiles can see the screen—“you’d better _run._ ” He clicks on the ‘send’ key and climbs into the van.

Stiles runs.

* * * * *

He heads straight for Hale territory. He doesn’t trust the hunters one fucking bit, but there aren’t many options open to him at this point. If they sent Derek that text, then Stiles doesn’t have the luxury of skirting round the long way, they’ll catch him way before he makes it to the Clinic. He’s almost positive that they were telling the truth about the pack being out of town though, if they were anywhere nearby, they’d have caught him by now.

The forest tears at his clothes and any exposed skin it can find. Stiles has lost count of the number of times he’s been scratched and scraped. All things considered though, it’s really nothing. He’s going flat out through the trees—something Stiles would never even contemplate under normal circumstances—but the thought of angry werewolves chasing him is doing wonders for his balance and coordination.

He has no watch and no phone to keep track of the time, but Stiles estimates he’s about halfway to Deaton’s clinic. That means he’s been running for roughly an hour—thank God for lacrosse, or he’d never be able to keep it up. Derek and the pack could be back in Beacon Hills by now and about to pick up his trail at any moment. The thought spurs him on. Sweat is running down his face and his pants are sticking to him like a second skin. He’s already tossed the t-shirt and jacket, trying to erase as much of the mage’s scent as possible.

Stiles runs and runs, ignoring the ache in his legs and just about everywhere else on his body. His lungs are burning, his breathing harsh as he desperately tries to pull in more air, and it’s only pure adrenalin that keeps him moving forward. He wipes at his eyes, momentarily blocking his view of the forest floor and that’s when it all goes to shit.

“Motherfuck!” Stiles yelps in pain as his ankle catches on an overgrown tree root and twists underneath him. He falls face first onto the ground, hands outstretched to cushion his landing. The path he’s on is littered with fallen branches, all rough edges where they’ve snapped off from the trees above. Stiles’ palms slam down amongst them and he cries out again when a couple of them pierce his skin. “Shit, shit, shit!” He cradles his left hand to his chest, not daring to look as it throbs all the way to his fingertips.

His ankle hurts, his hand hurts, but just _fuck everything_ because he doesn’t have time for any of this. With a pained grunt Stiles turns his hand over to assess the damage; the cut is deep, but thankfully not too long. It’s full of dirt though—and other things that Stiles can’t and really doesn’t want to identify—and still bleeding. Stiles ignores it for now and scrambles up onto his knees. His ankle is the biggest concern, and he gingerly pushes up onto his feet, using the nearest tree for support. _Jesus Christ,_ it hurts when he puts his weight on it, but Stiles has no fucking choice but to walk on it.

He takes several deep breaths, braces himself for the pain, and starts to limp through the trees as fast as he can without passing out. Twenty agonizing steps later and Stiles almost collapses in relief. He can see the road to the Clinic from here, just ten more minutes and he’ll be able to—

Stiles freezes in place. His whole body goes numb with fear as a long, vicious howl rips through the trees, scattering birds and wildlife alike. It’s answered by two more—Scott and Isaac, Stiles thinks—both sounding just as feral as Derek. They’re still a fair distance away, but Stiles is well acquainted with how fast werewolves are. He almost sobs at the unfairness of it all—he’s so fucking close.

Stiles’s got no other choice but to make a run for it, and hope he can get to Deaton’s before Derek’s pack gets to him. He cries out with every step, pain shooting through his leg each time his foot hits the ground, but he can hear them behind him now and he needs to fucking move.

Tears stream down Stiles’ face, stinging his cuts and blurring his vision. He angrily wipes them away, smearing blood and dirt over his face in the process and cursing the fucking hunters who did this to him. He’s almost there, the front entrance to the Animal Clinic now right in front of him and Stiles forces himself to go faster. The howling’s getting louder and louder, but he refuses to look back over his shoulder. He focuses solely on the doors up ahead, blocking out the snarling wolves he can hear crashing through the forest towards him.

It must be late evening by now, the sun has dropped considerably and Stiles prays that Deaton hasn’t closed for the day. He finally reaches the doors, but when he pushes on them they don’t move. He rattles the handle, uses what little strength he has left to try and force them open, but the fucking things remain closed—the open space beyond taunting him with the promise of safety that he can see but can’t touch.

“Deaton!” Stiles yells and bangs his fists against the glass. The pack is going to burst through the trees any minute and Stiles can’t let it go down like this. They’re not supposed to kill each other. He shouts Deaton’s name until his throat hurts and his hands are bruised from hitting the door. Just when he’s about to give up, the doors open and Stiles falls in a heap on the Clinic floor.

“Can I help you?” Deaton asks, his voice even like this is an everyday occurrence. His raised eyebrow the only indication that it’s not.

Stiles scrambles to his feet, gritting his teeth as his ankle protests violently. “It’s me, Stiles.” He rushes to explain before Deaton can interrupt. “Hunters took me; I’m under a spell to look like this.” He frantically waves his hands in a head to toe motion, but Deaton looks unimpressed.

“Stiles is dead.” Deaton says and Stiles wants to scream, but he can hear the growling outside and he has minutes, maybe seconds to convince Deaton of the truth.

“No, they killed someone spelled to look like me, but it wasn’t me!” He fists his hands in his hair, racking his brains to think of something he could say that only the real Stiles would know, but his mind is all over the place and it’s just too fucking hard to think straight. “You have to believe me.” He takes a step toward Deaton, hands held up in front of him in an effort to look non-threatening. “Derek will be here any second and he’ll rip me apart, no waiting for explanations. It’ll kill him when he finds out the truth, you know it will.”

Glass shatters all around them and Stiles collapses against the counter. Fuck, it’s too late. “ _Please_ ,” he whispers as a huge black wolf charges through the window and skids to a halt against the far wall. It turns around to face Stiles, eyes glowing alpha-red and fangs bared, and snarls. The sound starts low in its chest, reverberating around the room and setting Stiles’ teeth on edge. Isaac and Scott crash through the door in their beta forms, but Stiles ignores them for now.

“Derek?” He’s surprised at how steady his voice is, considering he’s absolutely terrified. It’s been a long time since he’s been afraid of Derek, but the eyes looking back at him now are full of hate and the promise of death. Stiles shudders but steadfastly refuses to look away. “Derek, I know it doesn’t look like it, but it’s me... Stiles.”

Scott immediately growls and moves towards him, but Derek snaps his teeth to stop him. Stiles watches, rooted to the spot as Derek shifts back into his beta form and stalks toward him.

“Stiles is dead. I watched you kill him, and now I’m going to tear you apart piece by piece.” The words themselves are slightly distorted by Derek’s fangs, but the intent comes through loud and clear.

“Derek, please.” Stiles grips onto the edge of the counter, fingers turning white as he tries to find the right words. “I know I don’t look like me, but the fucking hunters did that.” Derek is almost on him, claws extended, and Stiles swallows down the terror bubbling up inside. “Fuck, Derek, use your other senses. I smell like me—underneath everything else, I still smell like _me_.”

Derek pauses, cocks his head to the side and breathes deeply. The seconds tick by, almost in slow motion, and then Derek darts forward, faster than Stiles can track. His hand closes around Stiles’ throat, five sharp points dig into the soft skin and Stiles feels the warm trickle of blood.

“You smell like _him_ , because you touched him.” Derek hisses the words out, and Stiles knows there and then that Derek is too far gone in a haze of revenge. All he can see is the mage who killed his lover, and nothing Stiles can say will persuade him otherwise.

Stiles notices Deaton step forward out the corner of his eye, expression curious, and a tiny bit of hope flares in his chest.

“Derek,” Deaton starts. “Perhaps he’s—”

Derek cuts him off with a roar. “No!”

His claws tighten and Stiles chokes back a sob. If Stiles can’t reach Derek, then maybe Scott will listen. “Scott, remember when we...” he struggles to think of something only the two of them would know. There must be hundreds of things, but he can’t think of a single fucking one when it counts. But then...“Oh... oh...” It’s perhaps not the best example considering the proximity of Derek’s claws to Stiles’ tender throat, but it’s the only one he’s got. “Remember when we were twelve and I wanted to practice kissing and I made you ki—”

“Stiles?”

Stiles smiles in relief at Scott’s tentative recognition, but it’s short lived as Derek roars again and throws him across the room. He crashes into the wall, hitting his head hard, and everything goes a little fuzzy around the edges. There’s shouting and arguing, but Stiles can only make out some of the words.

“...saw him die, Scott!”

“Stiles is the only one... no one else knew... ” Scott’s voice sounds desperate and pleading and Stiles can tell his best friend believes him. He just needs to convince Derek.

“Derek,” Stiles says, and all four of them turn to face him. He struggles to keep his focus as Derek bares his teeth and walks over to him. Everything hurts ten times more than it did in the forest and the pain is threatening to drag him under. “This is _my_ blood”—he holds up his cut hand in front of Derek’s face—” I know you know what it smells like.” He swallows thickly and places his other hand over his heart. “And this is _my_ heartbeat. You told me you could always hear it... so _please_ listen to it now.”

The room is silent. Derek’s eyes are still red and full of rage; Stiles can’t bear to look at them anymore. His closes his own and rests his head back against the wall—he’s fucking exhausted. Stiles has no idea how long he sits there, but something warm and wet laps at his hand and pulls him back to awareness with a jolt.

He cracks one eye open to see Derek licking a long stripe across his palm, tasting the blood there. He’s fully human now, as are Scott and Isaac. Stiles holds his breath, waiting to see Derek’s reaction, and his heart aches at the lost expression on Derek’s face.

“Stiles?” Derek reaches out to touch him, but snatches his hand back at the last minute. “Fuck... Is it really you?”

Stiles makes a broken sound, somewhere between hysterical laughter and a pitiful cry. His head throbs, his ankle is agony, and he was just chased and almost killed by his boyfriend and his pack. It all hits him like a ton of bricks and he can’t help the words that come out. “Of course it’s me, you fucking _asshole_!”

“Definitely, Stiles,” Scott mutters, and Isaac laughs softly. Derek just stares at him though, and Stiles can see him struggle to believe that the stranger he’s looking at is actually Stiles, and not the mage.

Deaton clears his throat and steps forward to stand beside them. “If I may.” He crouches down and reaches out to touch Stiles’ chest. Derek growls out a warning and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s for him or Deaton.

“It’s a spell,” Stiles mutters, letting his eyes fall shut again. He’s so tired; he just wants to sleep forever.

“Yes, I can see that.” Deaton gives Stiles’ shoulder a shake. “You need to stay awake for just a little longer Stiles.”

Stiles nods, or at least he thinks he does, and manages to open his eyes just enough to see Deaton smile at him. “Can you fix me?”

Deaton presses something cool to Stiles’ lips. “I think so, but it won’t be very pleasant for you.” Stiles would roll his eyes if he had the strength, because really? Nothing about this has been very pleasant for him. “Drink,” Deaton orders and Stiles does as he’s told.

It tastes surprisingly sweet; like strawberries and honey, with the faintest hint of mint. Stiles is just licking the last of it from his lips when the pain starts, and— _Jesus Christ—‘_ not very pleasant’ was putting it mildly. It feels like a thousand tiny knives are attacking his body from the inside. His skin is on fire and it hurts so fucking much that he can hardly stand it.

Stiles reaches out blindly for something to hold onto, desperation making him cry out for Derek. He’s always been there when Stiles needs him most and right now is about as needy as Stiles is ever going to get. His fingers touch nothing but fresh air though, and for one awful moment Stiles feels his heart shatter. But then strong hands wrap around his shoulders pulling him forward until he’s tucked up against a solid wall of warmth.

“Derek...”

“Shh... I’ve got you.” Derek holds him tight, head buried in the crook of Stiles’ neck. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words are muffled against Stiles’ overheating skin, but he hears them loud and clear. He wants to pull back and take hold of Derek’s face in his hands. Wants to tell him that none of this is his fault, and that he doesn’t blame Derek for not believing him at first. But even though the pain is starting to fade, Stiles just doesn’t have any energy left to actually move.

He feels the way Derek’s chest rises and falls as he breathes in deep. “I watched you die,” Derek whispers, clutching Stiles even tighter. “I saw him snap your neck and I... _fuck,_ Stiles... I thought I’d lost you.”

“Still here, big guy.” Stiles’ body has finally stopped hurting and he lets out a long sigh, relaxing into Derek’s arms. “Not getting rid of me that easily.” He manages a small smile against Derek’s skin, but Derek immediately tenses underneath him.

He pushes Stiles back so that he can see his face. “Don’t make a joke about this.” He slides his hands up over Stiles’ neck until his palms are on either side of his jaw. Stiles swallows thickly, he’s never seen that look in Derek’s eyes before—so open and vulnerable. “You have no idea what it was like. I can’t...” He trails off and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Hey.” Stiles leans forward and places a soft, chaste kiss on Derek’s lips. “It’s okay.” He rests their foreheads together and closes his eyes too. “It’s okay.”

They stay like that, just breathing each other in and Stiles relishes the familiar scent of Derek as it fills his senses and wraps around him. He only registers how quiet it’s gotten when Deaton calls his name.

“Stiles?”

“Hmm?” He’s so comfortable. He wishes Deaton would just go away so he could sleep. Derek obviously agrees, judging by the low grumble he offers.

“I’ve sent Scott and Isaac home.” He pauses, and Stiles can hear him setting things up on one of the counters. “You should get Derek to take you home too, but I need to treat those injuries first.”

Stiles had forgotten all about them, what with the searing pain of the potion Deaton made him drink, but now every little hurt starts to make itself known again. Deaton is the worst. Derek’s hands begin to move, sliding over Stiles’ body. Their movements are far too methodical to be anything other than an examination.

“It’s just my ankle,” Stiles says, sleepily, as Derek helps him stand. “Oh, and my hand... and possibly my head.” Derek makes a pained noise and presses soft fingertips to Stiles’ neck, where his claws had broken the skin earlier. _Oh, yeah._ There’s that too. “You didn’t know,” he whispers and leans into Derek’s shoulder, letting him take Stiles’ weight.

“I should have.” Derek’s voice has _that_ tone. The one that means he’s not going to accept it wasn’t his fault, no matter what Stiles says. So Stiles saves his breath for later, when they’re alone and he can make Derek see sense.

Derek lifts Stiles up onto the counter so that Deaton can strap his ankle and bandage the cut on his hand.

“Where are the hunters now?” Deaton asks as he works on Stiles’ injuries.

“Waiting somewhere for me to die,” he answers and his free absently rubs over his arm where they put the tracker in. Fuck! “They put a tracker in me, they could be on their way.” Derek is half shifted already and Stiles tries to get off the table, but Deaton places a restraining hand on his arm.

He gestures to the small cut in Stiles’ forearm. “Hold still.” Deaton then turns to Derek. “I’m going to cut the tracker out now.” Stiles presumes that’s so Derek won’t rip Deaton’s head off when he comes at Stiles with a knife. Derek nods in understanding.

Deaton produces a scalpel and has the thing out of Stiles’ arm in the blink of an eye, and Derek crushes it to dust between his fingers. At least they won’t be able to track him anymore. Stiles hurriedly tells them all about the hunters’ plans and Deaton agrees to call Chris and Alison and explain everything. Stiles is more than happy for them to handle it—he’s had enough of dealing with hunters.

Thankfully, Stiles doesn’t appear to have a concussion, which is awesome. So Deaton just gives him Tylenol and sends them on their way, after making them both promise to return the following day so he can check on Stiles’ injuries.

It’s only when they get outside that Stiles considers Derek’s nakedness. “Um... clothes?”

Derek rolls his eyes and pointedly looks back at Stiles. “It’s not like you’re wearing many either.”

Stiles looks down at himself, and yeah, okay, his pants are filthy and ripped to shreds, but at least his junk is covered. He says as much to Derek, who just huffs and ignores him. He’s still radiating a whole bucket-load of emotion and Stiles has to remind himself of what Derek’s been through. For God knows how many hours, Derek thought Stiles was dead. He can’t begin to imagine how he would have felt if it had been Derek.

Stiles looks around the empty parking lot, and is about to ask how they’re supposed to get back to his house, when a familiar car pulls up in front of them. The door flies open and Stiles suddenly has his arms full of his best friend. He hugs Scott  back just as tightly.

Scott nuzzles into Stiles’ shoulder, sniffing him unashamedly and pointedly ignoring the low growling coming from Derek beside them. “Don’t ever do that again.” Scott’s voice wavers, and he clutches at Stiles like he’s afraid to ever let him go again.

“Not planning on it.” Stiles manages to squeeze out, because Scott is almost crushing his lungs.

“Scott!” Derek hisses. “You’re hurting him.”

Scott finally lets go of Stiles, and smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, dude. It’s just...”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles punches Scott on the shoulder with his good hand and smiles back. “So, are you my ride?” He gestures to Scott’s car which still has the engine running.

“Yeah, come on. Let’s get you home.”

* * * * *

It’s only a short drive from Deaton’s clinic to Stiles’ house, but Scott manages to ask him a million questions about what happened to him. Stiles has found his second wind and tells Scott all about what the hunters had planned, about the innocent boy they killed. There’s still things they need to take care of—the dead boy deserves a proper burial for one—they can’t let the hunters get away with this. Scott promises to talk to Alison and Chris in the morning and Stiles nods in agreement. Derek remains quiet for the whole journey, wrapped around Stiles like a blanket in the back of Scott’s car because he flat out refused to let go of him. At least he has pants on now; even if they’re Scott’s and are too tight and too short.

Stiles’ jeep is parked on the drive when they pull up to his house and he looks over at Derek in surprise. “We found it this morning.” It’s all he says before getting out of the car and gently tugging Stiles out after him.

Stiles thanks Scott for the ride and promises to call him tomorrow. He watches him drive off before turning to Derek. “Don’t suppose you have my keys on you?”

Derek raises an eyebrow and holds his hands out as if to say. _Are you serious?_

“Spare key it is then.” He rummages around under the fake rock and finally pulls out the key.

When they get inside and the door is locked behind them, Stiles barely has time to put the key on the table before Derek scoops him up, bridal style, and whisks him up the stairs and into the bathroom.

“What the fuck?” Stiles splutters, wobbling a little when Derek eventually puts him down.

“You still smell like _him.”_ He reaches into the shower and starts the water running. “I really need you not to.”

Yeah, okay. Stiles can see how Derek would be bothered by that, so he reaches for the button on his tattered pants. He’s halfway out of them when he notices that Derek isn’t moving. “I’m not the only one who needs a shower here.” He waves a hand over Derek’s dirt-streaked body until Derek grunts and grudgingly starts to undress.

They cover Stiles’ ankle and hand to keep the bandages dry, and step under the water. Stiles is a little limited with his movements, so Derek pushes him up against the wall and slides a thigh between Stiles legs to keep him upright.

“ _Oh_.” Stiles gasps as Derek’s wet skin brushes the length of his cock and it twitches with interest. “I didn’t realize we were doing _that_.”

“We’re not,” Derek answers, reaching for Stiles’ shower gel and pouring some out into his hand. He starts to wash Stiles thoroughly; not avoiding his dick—which is already half hard by this point—but not actively touching it either.

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles pouts, and disappointment curls deep in his belly. “Bad idea.” He understands that Derek’s probably still adjusting to everything that’s happened—he must have been through a rollercoaster ride of emotions in the last twenty-four hours—but it still hurts. Stiles drop his head, not wanting to see whatever expression is currently on Derek’s face.

“Hey.” Derek cups Stiles’ jaw and nudges him to look back up. “It’s not.” When Stiles scrunches his nose in confusion, Derek sighs. “A bad idea,” he clarifies, stroking his thumbs along Stiles’ cheekbones. “I just...” He leans in closer, so that their foreheads are touching, and Stiles can feel the tension in him as he fights to find the right words. “I lost you, Stiles, and now that I have you back...” Derek straightens back up to meet Stiles’ eyes and the look he gives him is so intense that Stiles’ knees suddenly feel weak. Derek’s eyes flash red, and there’s the slightest touch of claws on Stiles’ skin. “A shower isn’t enough time for what I want to do to you.”

“O- _kay_.” Stiles swallows, his mouth feeling far too dry, then settles back against the wall so Derek can finish washing them both.

When they’re cleaned to Derek’s satisfaction, he helps Stiles out of the shower and wraps a warm, fluffy towel around him. Stiles’ gaze trails over Derek’s still wet body, watching the rivulets of water make paths over his muscles. It’s almost a crime when Derek eventually wipes them away with a towel of his own.

“Bed.” Derek’s voice is low and rough and Stiles is almost fully hard as he follows Derek into his bedroom.

He drops his towel and settles back onto the mattress, heat coursing through his veins as Derek stalks toward him. The sheets are still crumpled from the day before, and Stiles kicks them all the way to the bottom of the bed.

He spreads his legs wide and Derek doesn’t hesitate to crawl between them. His skin is so warm to the touch and Stiles sighs in contentment as he finally feels Derek’s full weight on top of him. “Derek,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around Derek’s back. “I was so fucking scared.” He takes a deep shuddering breath and Derek slides his hands under Stiles’ shoulders to pull him in closer.

“Me too,” Derek whispers back. He noses at the crook of Stiles neck, rubbing his scent back into Stiles’ skin where it belongs. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Stiles smiles, opens his mouth to make some witty retort, but the words die on his tongue as Derek starts to move. It’s just a slow, gentle roll of his hips, but Derek’s cock brushes up against Stiles’, and the moan that escapes Stiles’ lips is loud in the quiet of his bedroom. It only gets louder when Derek does it again, and again.

He licks around the scratches on Stiles’ neck, soothing in between the cuts, and apologizing for them with each sweep of his tongue. Stiles is used to the way Derek communicates with touches rather than words, and he just lies back and lets Derek take whatever he needs.

Stiles tips his head to the side as Derek bites along the jut of his collar bone. His teeth are too sharp to be human, but Stiles arches into the feeling, trusting that Derek will never take it too far.

“It’s not going to be gentle.” Derek hums the words against Stiles’ skin, the rough scrape of stubble adding fuel to his words. “I can’t hold back, Stiles. I need—”

Stiles huffs a little in irritation and grabs hold of Derek’s jaw, forcing his head up. Derek has never made excuses for how he sometimes likes it rough, likes to mark Stiles as his own, and there’s no fucking way he’s going to start now.

“Hey.” Stiles waits until Derek meets his eyes. “I don’t want you to be gentle.” Derek starts to look away, but Stiles isn’t having any of it. “No, don’t do that. The past twenty-four hours have been fucking awful, I get it, but please don’t treat me like something fragile and broken, Derek. It’s not what I need either.” He presses forward, taking Derek’s bottom lip in his teeth and biting down hard. Derek hisses and Stiles licks the blood away before drawing back to look at him. “I just need you.”

It’s obviously the right thing to say—Derek’s eyes darken and his whole expression changes into one of feral want. Stiles would give himself a congratulatory pat on the back; if he wasn’t too busy being kissed by Derek as if his life depended on it.

His lips are bruised by the time Derek lets him go, but Stiles licks over them, enjoying the tenderness under his tongue. He sucks in a breath as Derek slides lower down the bed, biting and sucking marks into Stiles’ pale skin as he maps his way down Stiles’ body. It’s a good job the Sheriff knows about their relationship now, because there’s no way Stiles will be able to hide all of this from him when he returns.

Derek stops when he reaches the sharp outline of Stiles’ hips, skimming his mouth over the hard expanse of Stiles’ belly. His stubble scratches at the skin, and Stiles writhes on the bed at the almost ticklish feel of it. He knows it’s going to be bright red by the time Derek’s finished, but he couldn’t give a fuck. Derek’s chin lightly touches the head of Stiles’ cock and he aches for more, pushing his hips up off the bed in encouragement.

Derek grins, the barest hint of fang showing, and Stiles shivers in anticipation as Derek shifts a little lower and wraps his hand around the base of Stiles’ dick. Derek’s palm is warm and smooth, and his strong fingers flex as they slide up and down in long, lazy strokes. It’s not nearly hard enough, or fast enough for Stiles to get off, and he knows that Derek’s just teasing him. Stiles is prepared for Derek wanting to draw this out, he knows that Derek needs time to reaffirm his claim, and Stiles doesn’t make any attempt to hurry him along.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t taking all his effort not to beg Derek for more, and he has to bite his lip to keep the words inside. It’s the most exquisite torture, and Stiles is almost painfully hard, but this is exactly what both of them need right now.

“Fuck, yes.” Stiles mutters, a small smile on his lips, as Derek leans to the side and reaches under the bed. It’s where Stiles dropped the bottle of lube the night before last, and he automatically spreads his legs wider when he hears Derek snap the top open.

Stiles pushes up onto his elbows to watch. Derek looks up to meet his eyes briefly, before parting his lips and taking Stiles into his mouth. Wet heat surrounds him, and Stiles’ fists curl into the sheets underneath in an effort not to come. Slick fingers circle his hole, while Derek drags his tongue along the underside of Stiles’ cock. It feels like Derek is everywhere at once and the sudden increase in sensation has Stiles bucking off the bed and moaning loudly.

Derek lets Stiles fuck up into his mouth, humming in approval when Stiles collapses back onto the bed and grabs a handful of Derek’s hair. He grips it too tight, but he can’t let go and Derek just keeps sucking him down on every thrust of Stiles’ hips. It feels so good, Stiles is struggling to hold off his orgasm, but he wants it to last for just a little longer.

Stiles’ barely-there control is shot to pieces the moment Derek slides two fingers into his ass and his dick hits the back of Derek’s throat. The burning stretch of those thick fingers and the hot slide of Derek’s mouth is just too much.

“Jesus fuck!” Stiles curses loudly, scrunching his eyes shut, as he comes hard into Derek’s waiting mouth. He finally lets go of Derek’s hair, stroking his fingers through it one last time before his hands flop back down onto the bed.

Derek swallows everything, licks along the length of Stiles’ cock to make sure he got it all and ignores Stiles’ protests that he’s too sensitive. Derek kneels up, one hand on his dick as it strains hard and thick up towards his stomach. Stiles watches it all through a post-orgasm haze, his eyes following the movement of Derek’s fingers as they stroke up and down, pulling back the foreskin with each pass.

“Turn over.” Derek growls the words, his voice rough and throaty with the promise of what’s about to happen. It sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine, and his cock stirs with renewed interest. “Now.”

Stiles smirks as Derek’s eyes flash red for just a moment; he loves this side to Derek, all wild and uninhibited. He grabs one of the pillows from behind his head, and shoves it under his hips as he rolls over onto his belly. “No.” Derek settles in between Stiles’ legs and tugs back on Stiles’ hips until he’s on all fours. Derek leans forward until his chest is draped over Stiles’ back, hot breath tickling his ear. “I want you like this.”

Derek kisses the spot just behind Stiles’ ear, the one that makes Stiles’ toes curl. He nips at the soft skin, leaving Stiles breathing heavily, before sitting back up on his knees. Stiles immediately misses the warmth of Derek’s body, but Derek’s hands stroke down the length of his spine—thumbs dipping low on his ass—and he’s soon distracted.

He doesn’t hear Derek opening the lube again, but he must have at some point. The thumb sliding down between his ass cheeks is slippery and cool, and Stiles moans, low and needy, when Derek drags it over his hole.

“Jesus Christ... Stiles.” Derek pushes just the tip inside. “You look...” his voice trails off, ending in another low growl and he slides the rest of his thumb all the way in.

Stiles whines, needing more of Derek inside him and he can’t help but beg for it. “Come _on_ , Derek.” Derek moves his thumb, brushing Stiles’ prostate and Stiles chokes out a broken _please_ as his head drops forward.

He’s more than ready for it, but still feels the slight burn as Derek’s cock nudges inside him. Stiles bites his lip as Derek keeps going; slow and steady, until his hips are snug against Stiles’ ass. Derek’s hands slip down to grab Stiles’ hips, fingers digging in ever so slightly, and there’s just a moment’s pause for Stiles to adjust before Derek really starts to fuck him. His grip tightens, holding Stiles steady as he draws back and slams into him again and again.

Stiles drops down to his elbows, head resting heavily on the bed as Derek pounds into him. He feels the sharp sting when Derek’s claws pierce his skin, and it sends a jolt of arousal straight to his cock. Derek grunts behind him, and Stiles can tell that he’s close.

Stiles lifts his head and turns to look back at Derek. “I want you to come on me.”  He grins at Derek’s muttered curses, and slides a hand around his own cock when he starts to feel Derek pull out. Stiles strokes himself hard and fast. The sound of Derek doing the same behind him makes his balls draw up tight. Two more pulls of his hand and Stiles’ second orgasm rushes through him, just as the first splashes of Derek’s come hit his lower back.

Stiles collapses onto the bed, not caring that he’s lying in his own jizz because he’s so fucking exhausted. Derek’s fingers slip through the mess on Stiles’ back, rubbing it into the skin there and Stiles smiles into the pillow. “Satisfied?” he asks, when Derek finally lies down beside him.

Derek hooks a hand around Stiles’ waist and pulls him back, so that he’s nestled tightly against Derek’s chest and tucked under the safety of Derek’s arm. “Now I am.”

Stiles is just dropping off to sleep when Derek whispers in his ear. “For the record”—he pauses and pulls Stiles in a little closer—“if Scott ever kisses you again, I’ll rip his throat out.” He doesn’t add ‘with his teeth’ but Stiles knows it’s implied and he laughs out loud, finally feeling that everything is okay between them. The events of the past day and a half could have broken them apart, but it hasn’t, and Stiles feels the bond between them stronger than ever.

When he’s calmed down enough to sleep, Stiles whispers back. “If Scott ever kisses me again, I’ll let you.”

Derek smiles against his shoulder, and Stiles closes his eyes and lets sleep take him, but he doesn’t miss the _you’re mine_ that Derek kisses into his skin _._

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy my writing, I also write m/m original fiction which you can find [here](http://www.amazon.com/Annabelle-Jacobs/e/B00ARUXZL4/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1391098611&sr=8-2)


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